


Too many thoughts, too little time

by Frenchibi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Inktober, Inktober 2017, Prompted Writing, personal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-08 07:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 7,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12249903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchibi/pseuds/Frenchibi
Summary: For Gwen, who is fantastic :DI'm shamelessly stealing the Inktober for Writers thing after you told me about it, because I seem to have a lot of restless energy and I need to vent it somewhere.These are going to be... super short, unless I have a specific longer idea? But. Yeah. I wanted to do more random, non-fandom related writing. :'D Let's see how this goes!





	1. Searching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hajiiwa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hajiiwa/gifts).



> For Gwen, who is fantastic :D  
> I'm shamelessly stealing the Inktober for Writers thing after you told me about it, because I seem to have a lot of restless energy and I need to vent it somewhere.  
> These are going to be... super short, unless I have a specific longer idea? But. Yeah. I wanted to do more random, non-fandom related writing. :'D Let's see how this goes!

Isn’t everyone?

For different things, sure, but - in the end, we’re all running around trying to  _ find. _

Car keys.

Earplugs.

Songs.

Memories.

Purpose.

Love.

Hope.

 

It’s messy, and confusing. Terrifying.

Sometimes we don’t even know why we’re running, or where, or how to avoid the cliff.

 

If you fall - and you will - don’t forget how to get up.

Keep searching.

You might not know for what - but you also don’t know what you’ll find.


	2. Barefoot

Stone slabs, worn-down and dented, edges lined with dry grass that tickles. They feel strange, like paths walked by ancient men. She straightens up, tries to walk with purpose.  


Coarse cement is next, pleasantly warm from the sun. It’s smooth, in its own way, but not comfortable. It feels too vast, somehow, too purposeful. It's not the vastness she longs for.  


Then there’s slippery tiles, and the smell of chlorine. It makes her skin crawl, and she tries not to linger. The water burns.  


A path of pine needles and tiny twigs, prickly, that calls for caution. Watch your step. Feet are delicate.

More dry grass, brown and brittle, in tufts between trickles of pebbles. Close, now.

And then-

Hot sand, between the cracks of her toes.

Cool sand underneath as she digs her feet in, and it's damp and heavy, scattered with stones. Forward. Onward.

Wet sand, shells, and-

Finally, _finally_ the rush of water over heated skin.

She’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I love mermaids.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr.](http://frenchibi.tumblr.com)  
> And, for what it's worth, I also have a [ko-fi account.](https://ko-fi.com/A8403D38)


	3. Warmth

In our old house, we used to have a fireplace.

Nothing too fancy, really - it was round, a black granite ledge built around it, let into one corner of the living room. The heat from the fire warmed the entire house. On the first floor, my bed was up against the wall the chimney passed through, and if I leaned against it, I’d feel it radiating.

On cold days, my dad would sit on the ledge and warm his back, or rest his feet up on it while he sat in his large black leather armchair. He’d get one of the boys to help carry in the firewood, and bought long matches so they could safely help him light it.

When we got home from skiing or came inside from the garden, we’d pile our wet snow pants and gloves on the ledge for them to dry.

If one of us got a fever or a cold, we were allowed to bring our comforters downstairs and curl up on the sofa, or even in the armchair, by the fire. My mom would make tea and sit with us for a bit, maybe even let us watch a movie or two.

Sometimes, the four of us would stuff ourselves into the armchair together - my baby sister on my lap and my brothers on either side - and put our feet up to warm them, as close as we dared without touching the glass. We’d always squabble over who got to sit there (and if my dad wanted his chair back he would lift us out, squealing all the way), but we’d always end up in a big pile, anyway. Sometimes we’d get cozy enough to doze off, and we’d pretend to not wake up when our mom told us to go to bed - because sometimes she indulged us and carried us upstairs. Not often, though -  _ you’re big enough to walk, _ she’d say, and she’d tickle us until we shrieked with laughter.

Some nights, we read my sister’s bedtime stories down by the fire, or we’d sit and sing nursery rhymes. In her room it was just me and my mom, but if we were downstairs, the boys joined in too. We’d take turns reading books we all knew by heart, reciting  _ Dr. Seuss _ and stories about  _ Little Critter. _ My sister’s favorite was  _ The Gruffalo -  _ my mom used to do voices, and she had this way with rhyming stories that just made them immensely fun.

 

It’s been a long time since then, and a lot of things have changed. The new house has a fireplace - it’s in the dining room, and it’s small, not really great for sitting at. My apartment doesn’t have one at all. My mom got remarried, my dad moved away, my brothers are finishing high school.

We no longer read each other bedtime stories. But on a good day, in my car, the four of us will be belting out pop songs from back then.

The warmth of the fireplace used to bring us together… but maybe it wasn’t just that. 

Maybe warmth is something you make - and if so, I never have to worry about freezing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sappy and I love my family very much thank you bye


	4. Compliment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long-overdue letter.

Sit down, please.

I won’t keep you too long - I just want you to be comfortable, you see? You’ve come a long way. Let yourself rest.

You’ve been alive for almost 22 years - and you never give yourself a break. I mean - it’s good. You’re diligent. Ambitious. Hard-working. Determined. But, well… you kind of have no chill. So maybe just… sit for a second.

I… didn’t ask you to join me so I could lecture you. Actually, I’m here because I’m hoping I can make you hate yourself a little less.

God, you’ve been trying  _ so hard. _ Sometimes you don’t need to try that hard, dear. You just need to set the bar a little lower.

I get it - believe me, really, I do - you’re aiming for the stars. You always have been - you wanted to be an astronaut when you were four, remember? And a professional roller skater, but… well. Soon after that, you decided you wanted to be an interpreter. And look at you now? You’ve done it. You got there.

Sure, it’s not how you pictured it, and maybe it’s not the job you’ll want for the rest of your life, but you  _ got there, girl. _ You graduated with amazing grades., both in high school and at university. Not flawless, but  _ amazing,  _ damn it, and with barely any effort. Stop beating yourself up over what might have happened if you’d been less lazy. You always knew you’d breeze through these things without breaking a sweat. Fuck, you wrote your thesis in  _ two days!  _ That’s incredible, not “just bad planning”. I remember your mom’s reaction was “you don’t deserve this” when you got an A, and you laughed and agreed, but that’s not true. You do. You deserve to succeed, even if you don’t put in 100%. You know what? You deserve to find something that makes you  _ want  _ to put in 100%.

…there have been things. Relationships, mostly, friendships that blurred the lines. You put in 100% and were quickly shut down, but that doesn’t mean you should stop trying. You’re passionate, invested, intense. The people who think you’re too much will leave, but that’s life. I don’t think you’re too much. I think you’re fantastic, and I know there’s people who do, too.

Then there’s art, of course, and writing. Let’s face it - you never really knew how to put 100% into your art, and maybe that’s just how it is… but that’s fair. You’ve always put 100% into your writing, and it’s okay that you’ve been disappointed with responses. But, you know, there’ve also been really great ones. Remember? It’s easy to get stuck in how disappointed you are (that happens a lot, doesn’t it?) but - and I know this is hard, and you’ve always been trying to - keep in mind the people who  _ do  _ appreciate what you do. It doesn’t matter that no one’s been paying you for what you’re doing. You’re not doing it for them, not really. You’re doing it for you, and that’s really great - because that means you can change course at any moment, change fandoms, ships, whatever.

This is your party. Your life. Your choice.

You want to be vibrant again, right?

Oh, but you already  _ are. _ You never stopped, not in the deepest darkest pit of depression. You cried tears of bitterness and sadness and desperation. You cried until you were empty - but there was enough of you left to gather the strength to get up, no? 

You’ve always kept your spark. Now all you have to do is learn to harness it again.

I have the utmost faith in you.

I know you long for the approval of people who aren’t me. But… I’m going to be here longer than any of them. I’m  _ always _ here. Kind of obvious, right? I  _ am  _ you. I think we should be friends.

So hear me out - you’re not small. You’re not pathetic, petty, useless, hopeless, helpless, or empty. You’re warm and multi-colored and full of love to give.

How about you give some to yourself for a change?


	5. Fallen

It’s not the end.

They whisper of the Fallen with awe and concern, like no one really knows what happens after. They’re filled in equal measures with fear and the strangest longing, but they never seem to look down.

Sooner or later, we all fall. It’s a law, a truth we all know to be absolute - but, well. As we watch the others drift away, we’re filled with foreboding and excitement. This home is all we know, and everything else is confusing and strange.  


One day, there was a storm.  


We’ve weathered many storms here, together - in spring; the winds that carry sweet scents replaced by frantic flurries, in summer; scorching heat followed by angry gusts. But slowly, we’ve started to change color, and started to lose our grip.  


Autumn storms are ruthless and elating. They catch you off guard and send you soaring.

No one told me falling doesn’t always mean down.

Sometimes it sets you free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love fall. The End.


	6. Water

Why is “going with the flow” considered so bad?

I don’t think you should be fighting against the current all the time, for your entire life. What you should do instead is… find a current you want to be on. Let it carry you, but don’t become complacent - let it  _ accelerate _ you, empower you, drive you forward.

There is so much adversity everywhere - why can't we let different be different? What does it concern you what others do, as long as they don't hurt you?

_ Swim against the current. _ Why are we making __ the currents so powerful, so full of adversity towards identity?

Listen. Have you ever seen a river?

There's many, many little currents that come together, countless streams that make up the whole - and that's how you overcome obstacles. The water comes together around rocks and bends and crevices so the direction stays the same.

Don't you think we should be like the water?

And even if the streams are different, come from different countries, mountains, sources - they all lead to the sea.

What is it that we want, really? Freedom? Safety? Happiness?

We can have it. I want to believe they we can. 


	7. Confusion

How can you know where you’re going if you don’t know where you’ve been?

Nothing makes sense.

There’s a cycle, surely, of rising and falling, of seasons changing, of life moving on.

Is everything part of it?

I open the window and lean out as far as I dare. The air is brisk, cold. Soon it will be winter once again.

Maybe we have to embrace confusion.

Maybe nothing is meant to make sense.

We’re running, walking, crawling, towards some unknown goal.

What do you seek?

What do you need?

Where will you go?

I don’t think anyone knows.

Maybe there is beauty in confusion.

Maybe between all the running and the panic, the fear, the uncertainty, there are moments of clarity. Moments where the air is clear and your soul is lifted up, out of the mass of gray questions, to become one with the sky.

Maybe we’re meant to fly.

Maybe we need confusion to appreciate life.

 

Maybe I don’t know anything at all.

Maybe that’s okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who knows.


	8. Impasse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It’s always the same, it’s just a shame, that’s all.”  
> [[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khg2sloLzTI)

Sometimes you’ve done all you can.

I don’t like admitting defeat. I’m proud, and stubborn, and determined, and ambitious.

But ...sometimes you’ve done all you can, and that’s all.

There’s no moving forward, no turning back, ‘cause it’s never just  _ you, _ is it?

There’s always someone, something else involved, and sometimes that ends up blocking your way.

I don’t think it’s sabotage.

Sometimes you walk beside someone for years until you realize that your paths have stopped aligning.

Unstoppable force, immovable object?

Maybe move a different object, then.

Sometimes what you want isn’t what you need.

Sometimes you don’t  _ know _ what you need.

 

I don’t believe in fate. I think you make your own destiny. But I also believe that we can’t know everything. Sometimes knowledge takes time, experience, courage.

I don’t believe “more force” is an option.

If you know what you want but you hit a wall - change course.

If you know what you want but can’t have it - move on.

“The world waits for no one.”

By all means, slow down. But you don’t have to stop.

Change direction. Keep moving.

Move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come with me. [[x]](http://frenchibi.tumblr.com)  
> I've been losing so many subs and followers because of my change of direction - but I like the new me. So... this is how it's going to be.


	9. Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Alexander, though he probably won't read it.  
> We see you, and we love you.

In retrospect, they freed him.

 

My brother never had it easy.

He’s the third in line, behind a sister who did everything right and a brother who did everything wrong - and it looked like there was no place for him.

He was seldom seen, so he made himself heard. He’d scream, throw tantrums, and the next moment he was sweet, kind, generous, smart.

Always a little too loud.

Always jittering with too much energy.

He started fitting in in soccer practice - but he was still impatient and not much of a team player. He wanted a place for himself.

 

Last winter, my dad bought him a guitar.

 

My brother is a musical genius. Played the recorder, piano, violin, saxophone. Caught on way faster than I did on any of these instruments, or our little sister, or our mom.

I was good enough by the books, while my brother improvised songs I couldn’t dream of. Eventually I got tired, and switched to singing - something I could pour my effort into.

My sister meanwhile did as she was told - she practiced, but there was no heart in it, while my brother lived the music he made. It showed.

 

He got his guitar a week after Christmas.

Three days later, he was playing Ed Sheeran’s  _ Photograph _ for us to sing along to.

He learned new songs like they were helping him breathe, and with every day he seemed to bloom more and more into something wonderful.

When I visit my mom, he comes up out of his room to say hello - and he always brings his guitar, and a new song to show me. We spend hours upon hours just sitting together, making music. He brings it on car rides and sits in the back where he’s got the space to play as I drive.

 

He’s changed, in the last year.

He’s growing up.

There’s new confidence in him, in the way he walks, talks, acts. There’s care in everything he does, and an awkward charm to what he says.

I'm proud of where he's going.

I think he’s finding his place.


	10. Honor

I haven't been honorable. 

I've been rude and impatient and unkind. I've been disrespectful and selfish and mean.

 

I'm trying to own up to what I've done - to be more like I want to be; dependable, understanding, grateful. To treat people with the same love and affection and patience that they've offered me when I was at my lowest point.

 

I've broken things I might not be able to repair.

I'm filled with regrets, but they make you bitter, resentful, unhappy.

My depression is already taking care of that all on its own.

It's easy to be angry, frustrated, indignant. 

It's so hard to let it go.

 

“Honorable” sounds so old-fashioned, but I think it's something I want to strive towards. Dignified. Selfless. Humble and kind.

It's a process, not a state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these prompts are... kind of hard to associate anything with xD


	11. Seasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Could be the changing of the seasons, but I don't love you anymore"_   
>  [[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uBv3HodqLs)

From early on, we learn to adapt.

The world is full of change - the seasons are the most prominent proof.

Even a child understands, when your surroundings change then you can’t stay the same.

 

When it gets colder, you put on warm clothing. You don’t wear sundresses in the snow.

When it gets warmer, you leave your jackets at home.

When it rains, bring an umbrella.

When it’s sunny, bring a cap.

 

We learn that in autumn, the wind gets stronger and the leaves fall from the trees. Autumn is pretty coats and scarves, tea and fingerless gloves, collecting nuts and making preparations for the cold.

We learn that in winter, the world is covered in white. Winter is skiing and snow boots, hot chocolate and Christmas cookies, it’s huddling together and singing songs around the fireplace.

We learn that spring is when new life begins - the snow melts away, and everything is drenched in soft colors. Spring is buds and blossoms, fresh air and tentative sunshine, it’s new breath and new light.

We learn that in summer, the world glows bright, and everything draws new strength. Summer is cold drinks and hot sun, it’s lake trips and ice cream and days that stretch well past our bedtime.

 

We learn that changing seasons are what make up our lives, that adapting is natural, that no flower blooms all year around.

 

So why are we so hard on ourselves? Why do we search for constants like our life depends on it? Why do we try to  _ be _ constants?

 

There’s comfort in things that last.

People change, all the time, every day. And yet we want the things we love to always stay the same. We blame them for changing, for upsetting the balance.

 

You know what? The only thing that’s truly balanced is change.

 

Wouldn’t it be grand, instead of fighting to stay stagnant, to find someone willing to come with you as you change?


	12. Instrument

Play me like an instrument

Tease me 'til I’m worn

'til my soul in shards you’ve left

And my heart is torn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I was gonna write an anecdote actually but I'm really tired and I have a lot of work today so - I'll leave you with this sort-of poem instead because it's all my brain could come up with :'D


	13. Foolish

I won’t make this mistake a third time.

Once - once, no one’s gonna blame me for that. There’s some things you only learn from experience.

Twice - twice, okay. It happens. I understand. I’ve been here before, but I didn’t recognize the signs fast enough. I could have known, but I was a bit too slow. I can forgive myself for this.

But a third time? Come on.

The worst thing is - this time, I saw it coming. I saw it happening before my eyes with no power to intervene, and now I’m about to be back where I was twice before, falling,  _ falling,  _ to ruin everything-

Please. Please, oh  _ please _ let me be better this time. I don’t know if I can take another fallout. I don’t know if my heart can break again.

If only I could save me from myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess we need to learn some things the hardest way.


	14. Haunted

Their words remain.

 

Faces melt away like ice cubes in the sun, colors merge and fade to gray - but voices, words, they stay.

 

I can’t remember faces.

But I swear I can tell you what you said to me three years ago.

 

It seems words are my craft.

I’ve trained myself to draw faces, but words always came naturally.

 

I remember the lyrics to every song I’ve heard more than twice.

 

When I go to places I’ve shared with others, their words drift back to me.

You pointed out colors, buildings, feelings - they stay, even after you’ve left.

 

My mind is haunted with the words of people who’ve moved on.

I cling to them like fragments of someone I used to be, like they’ll save me from drowning.

 

They won’t - in the end they’re just words.

They’re words from a time that I treasure - but you can’t hold on to everything.

Sometimes you have to learn to move on and let go.

 

You have to trust that you won’t drown - the present you knows how to swim.


	15. Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has... mentions of death, so if you're not comfortable with that, skip it.
> 
> To my grandmother, as I remember her.

We influence each other in subtle ways.

 

My grandmother wasn’t a tactile person.

When I’d hug her as a kid, she’d go stiff as a board. She was proper, proud, a bit fussy - not a hugger.

When my sister was born, she had stars in her eyes. She  _ adored  _ her. Carried her around all the time, would coo over her tiny feet and her tiny hands and practically hiss when anyone else got too close.

 

A few months later, she started hugging back.

I think my baby sister warmed her heart in a way the rest of us couldn't - and suddenly, it wasn't awkward anymore.  


Little Victoria was the  _ definition _ of tactile. We had to restrain her from hugging strangers - not the best thing for a five-year-old to be doing, surely. She was always all over people, hugging, kissing, snuggling.

When my grandma came over, she let me hug her without complaint. She squeezed back.  


 

She passed away four years ago. Cancer.

I saw her, the week before she died. She looked… bad, but that was to be expected. Her energy was draining out of her, but her mind was still bright.

I can’t imagine how trapped she must have felt.

 

I talked to her, told her about my driving lessons and my new classes and my friends.

She blinked, held my hand. Too weak to speak.

 

“Don’t squeeze her fingers so hard,” my granddad told me.

I was about to pull back, startled, afraid I’d hurt her-

but she squeezed back.

 

That’s how I remember her. That squeeze said everything,  _ everything  _ I needed to know.

_ Don’t listen to him. _

_ I can take this. _

_ It’s fine, you didn’t hurt me. _

_ I can still think for myself. _

_ I’m still me. _

_ I still love you. _


	16. Defiance

I’m the most stubborn person I know.

It’s hard for me to admit faults, mistakes, to alter course, to change.

I need to, though.

You can’t always stomp your foot and get your way like an angry little girl.

 

I think stubbornness can be my strength.

Become tenacity, determination, ambition.

Those are flexible - stubbornness is not.

 

I hate being wrong, but I hate not making progress more.

It’s easy to say “this was my fault”, but harder to believe it.

What does “own up” even mean? How do I fix the mistakes of the past? Where do I start? I can’t turn back time.

The only thing I can change is my future.


	17. Jubilant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's high time I talked about singing.

I found elation in music. I’m always seeing my salvation there.

 

My first memory is my mother singing a lullaby - to my baby brother, but she taught me the words so we could sing it together. From then on, bedtime stories and lullabies became part of a family routine, and with every child born, our group increased. I remember sitting in my mom’s lap, and crowding around her when it wasn’t my turn. I remember getting my first recorder for Christmas, and taking lessons.

 

I remember a trip into town with my mom when I was four years old - we saw street performers, and one of them had a saxophone.

That day changed me.

Six years later, when I’d played my recorder to death, my mom took me to a music shop.

 

“Why don’t you try learning the clarinet? It’s a wonderful instrument.”

“I want the one we saw, remember? It was... the one from the street?”

I’d talked about it constantly. Of course she knew what I wanted.

“...you mean a saxophone?”   
“Yes! That!”

“...they’re expensive. If we buy it, you have to play it.”

“I will, I will, I promise!”

 

I played for five years, and I  _ loved _ it. I loved the sound, I loved the feel of the instrument, I loved that it was unusual and cool and I was proud of my choice.

 

But I also realized that jazz wasn’t for me. I lacked the feeling, I was afraid to improvise, uncomfortable performing, self-conscious.

 

I’d always wanted to sing.

I had dreams of performing on stage, dreams of being a pop star.

 

There was one singing teacher, a couple towns over. I was on a waiting list for two years.

 

When I was thirteen, I had my first lesson. It was frustrating, as beginnings often are - but I was over the moon with excitement.

I left my saxophone to my brother (who got better in three years that I was ever going to be), and I haven’t stopped singing since.

 

I’m not a pop star. I’m studying with a classical teacher, I sing arias, opera, musicals. This is my ninth year.  


I couldn’t be happier.

 

I’ve found a choir, ninety warm and kind people who easily welcomed me into their midst despite the  _ substantial _ age difference - most of them are older than fifty, and I was barely twenty then. But I sang a trial, and they loved me. So I stayed.

We sing classical songs, Bach, Mozart, Händel, Vivaldi. We sing religious songs, contemporary songs, acapella, with an organ, with an orchestra. It’s bright and multi-faceted and I’ve never felt so at home anywhere else.

 

Being part of this choir is like remembering how to breathe.

Performing with them is like being part of something that’s bigger than you or me, bigger than anything I know. You get swept up in the music and ride it like a wave, let it carry you along and take you away.

It’s euphoric.

It makes me feel invincible. Ecstatic. Jubilant.

 

I wouldn’t trade it for the world.


	18. Waiting

Waiting is like searching.

We all are, for something, for someone.

I’m waiting for change.

 

I’m waiting for improvement. Happiness. Forgiveness.

 

I hate waiting.

I’m the most impatient person I know.

Waiting is so frustrating.

 

I want to run, go, scream,  _ do. _

 

“Give it time.”

I hate waiting.

 

“It’ll take about two months for the meds to be effective.”

Fuck that.

 

“You’ll get better, you’ll see.”

Fuck that.

 

God, they meant well, but they made me so angry.

 

I’m okay now, because of course they were right in the end. I got better. I  _ feel _ better. But even if I could travel back in time and tell my angry, waiting self, it wouldn’t make a difference.

...because I guess that takes time.


	19. Nature

I’m not bothered by the rain.

The sound is soothing against my window panes, it makes me feel cozy, warm, safe.

The rain washes away all the grime and the dirt, and once it’s gone, the air is fresh and sweet and it feels like you’re learning to breathe again.

 

I’m not bothered by the wind.

The sound is exhilarating as it rustles through the trees, tearing away stray leaves and hats and tugging at coats and scarves.

The wind carries you along, accelerates, uplifts. There’s nothing more motivating.

 

I’m not bothered by snowfall.

It covers the streets in brilliant white, makes the days bright and crisp where it reflects sunlight.

It brings a peaceful silence that’s serene and calm, and sometimes only begs to be broken.

 

I’m not bothered by gray skies.

They’re murky, and some days it’s a challenge to keep going. But I want to. And I will. Sometimes you have to hold out until the sun shines again. I want to believe that we can.

 

I want to stand on mountaintops and watch the endless sky.

I want to scream and sing and dance - maybe one day I’ll fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone with allergies, I can't enjoy the outside very much - except in autumn and winter. That's when I thrive.


	20. Sheltered

**** When I was ten years old, my dad built a treehouse in our garden.

Or, well. It wasn’t so much a treehouse as it was a house on stilts - the only trees in our garden were a tiny plum tree and three large fir trees, neither of which were really suitable for holding a house.

We called it the Clubhouse, and even though it was just a tiny room with one window and a leaky roof, it was our favorite thing.

On the first sunny day after it was finished, we got large pots of paint and drew flowers on it and a large sun (my dad, the older of my younger brothers and I did, anyway - Alexander was still too little to really help, but he ran around with a brush and yelled a lot. Baby Victoria watched with our mom from inside, and they brought us ice cream halfway through).

The Clubhouse became the starting point for every game of hide and seek (there’s no peeking if you’re counting inside!), and the boys made it their base for the epic nerf gun battles with their friends. When our neighbor came over, I’d have tea parties in it with her.

The first summer with the Clubhouse, the boys and I got it into our heads that we wanted to sleep in it - kind of like camping, but it’d be so much more high-class because it wouldn’t be a tent, it’d be in our own little house! And I was so sure I’d be able to see the stars through the window.

Needless to say, we were way too excited when our mom said we could do it. (A little less excited when she warned us that there were no nightlights in the Clubhouse - no electricity at all. But she said she could leave the porch light on, so we’d be fine. Surely.)

So, one evening we carried our comforters and pillows out to the Clubhouse and dumped them inside (I made my dad get rid of two spiders - that dampened my mood considerably), got some flashlights with new batteries and camped out.

Well… it was colder than expected. The boys couldn’t settle down, there was a lot of kicking and squirming in that small space. And then the floor was uncomfortable, I couldn’t really see the stars with the porch light on, and  _ oh my god is that a spider?!? _

...we didn’t last very long - but maybe that’s just as well. When we trekked back to the house, defeated, my mom made hot chocolate for us instead before taking us to bed.

As we grew older, the Clubhouse fell into disrepair - the roof was leaky and the wood started to deform, paint peeling off the sides. We became too big to really fit inside, and slowly, the stilts on which it stood became overgrown.

It’s still there today, even though we’ve moved away

It’s there, and my mom’s renting the house to a family with five small kids. Their dad got new boards for it, and covered it with fresh paint.

It’s good to know that after playing its part for us, it’s now sheltering other kids, as well. A place to hide, to play, to reimagine.

I hope they enjoy it just as much as we did.


	21. Fingertips

Distance is a creation of the mind.

Don’t get me wrong - of course distance is a physical thing, and there’s no way to change that some of my closest friends are in Indonesia, India, North America - while I’m in Europe.

But distance… distance is also something you make. I can be close to people without sitting next to them. They’re scattered all across the globe, but we’re only fingertips apart.

I miss them. I never said it was easy. And sometimes physical proximity is all you want and all you can’t have.

Sometimes it helps to have people close, in the same room, on the same level. Sometimes you’re sharing one space but you’re still not on the same page.

And sometimes you click with someone who’s half a world away.

Two of my closest friends moved to Australia.

I miss them insanely much, and we barely talk - except when they come back to visit, and then it’s like nothing’s changed.

Fingertips, not worlds. We’re fingertips apart.


	22. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heard a song that kind of irritated me - it said "it's darkest before the sun."  
> But, really... it's not?

It’s dark. Cold. Damp.

 

They say it’s darkest right before the sun - but that’s not how it really goes.

You don’t run further and further into the woods until you’re found.

That’s not how salvation works.

 

The fall down is rocky and painful, and so is the climb up. It’s still worth it though. I still hope you try.

 

And even though it’s not darkest before the sun - the sun’s still coming. You’ll see it before it rises, in how the sky slowly becomes brighter, until it breaches the horizon. It rises in gentle grays and blues and pinks, sometimes it’s orange, purple, red. It’s soft, crisp, new.

 

Maybe you’ve hit your darkest night. But it can only get brighter from there.

The day won’t come right away - but eventually, it will. You can make it seem faster by turning towards it, allowing it to happen, getting up and moving on.

Start walking.

You’ll get there.

 

Starting is the hardest part.


	23. Wishes

I never believed in wishing on stars.

I’ve seen three or four shooting stars in my life, and every time, someone would tell me to make a wish. I’d nod, close my eyes, hope - but it was always vague. What’s there to wish for? Health? Prosperity? Happiness?

I don’t believe in divine justice, or some force that grants us what we want. I believe we are the force, and we are what we make of the situations we’re thrown into. Of course we can’t control everything; biology, nature, genetics. But we can change our attitude.

Wishes… well. A nice idea, but how well do they work?

Hope can only take you part of the way.

 

Hope is important to me. It’s an essential part of who I am, a force that drives me, keeps me going. But it’s not all there is. Hope in itself is no better than empty words - and so are wishes, unless we take the steps in our power to make them come true.


	24. Breakable

Why is it that some relationships feel so delicate?

I have friends that I’m sure will stay for the foreseeable future, for years and years if I live that long. I have friends that I know will forgive me. I have friends that already have.

Why is it, then, that I keep messing up with others, and I’m always afraid it’s the last straw?

Why can’t I connect with everyone? Are people really just that different? Or is it phases, and I’ve met someone in a bad one?

When I think about it… the strongest friend I have, and the weakest - they’re both people. We’re all  _ people. _

Why am I so quick to forgive? Why is it so hard for people to forgive me?

It makes you wonder, am I really as awful as I think I am? Is this my fault, or are there other influences?

Are there things I’ve done (me, who’s never broken a law) that are unforgivable?

I know I’ve caused pain, hurt, frustration. I know, and I am filled with regret.

I know I’m not as kind as I wish I was. I know I’m not as balanced, not as controlled in my emotions as I should be.

I know I keep messing up, even now, without hating myself unconditionally.

I’m still me. I’m still clumsy and too eager and annoying.

I’m also tired. Tired of fighting, tired of screaming, tired of being up til 5am and crying my eyes out.

It’s enough, now. I’ve had enough.

But where do I go from here?


	25. Friend

For the last seven years, I haven’t tried to be my own friend.

I didn’t think I needed to - I mean, I’m always around either way, right? There’s no need to be kind to myself, because the day I’m gone is the day things are over, anyway.

The thing is - you can’t learn kindness if you only give it to others, and ask to receive.

I tried to be kind to my friends, and sometimes it worked, but sometimes I failed miserably. I’ve made friends and I’ve lost them, I’ve hurt, frustrated, alienated.

 

For the last three months, I’ve tried to be my own friend.

Tried to listen to the signals she gives me, this girl who is me. To let her rest, to let her be sad, empty, lonely. To let her hurt.

And then to help her pick herself up off the floor, and keep walking. To help her forget the thoughts of wanting to leave, to be gone, to give up trying to find meaning.

To help her remember the people who love her, and to tell her that I can love her, too.

 

Only now I realize - being kind to myself takes energy, too. Energy I now lack in empathy. Energy I cannot give to my friends anymore.

I give a lot, all the time, but I’m not limitless.

I’ve started making mistakes I didn’t make before.

I’ve regained impatience, frustration, exhaustion.

I’m tired.

 

My friends adapt. They call me out. They help me grow.

I wish I was kinder. I wish I could share happiness just as it is given to me.

I wish I could give and give and give, without forgetting myself.

I wish we all travelled at the same speed.

I wish life wasn’t so full of running away and waiting for people to catch up, and then hoping that we don’t get left behind.

It’s not about leaving. It’s about learning to stay.


	26. Realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A collection of thoughts about perspective, I guess.

I’m very suggestible.  I’m full of doubt, and I wish I wasn’t. I’m deeply insecure, and it's a flaw I can't seem to lose.

I’m in love with the small habits I can see in my friends, and easily endeared. I wish I could hold them all close to my heart, and never let them go.  


 

My feelings have always been on my sleeve. It's not a bad thing, being open, but sometimes I wish I wasn't quite so easy to read.  


I’m loud and bright, unless I’m not. On those days, I don't feel like myself - but I'm still me. I'm just a different shade, I look at the world through the wrong lense. I wish I could control it, change, improve.  


I try to help where I can. Sometimes I get so lost in things I cannot influence, emotional, helpless, vulnerable. I wish I could stop all my worrying.  


I’m so, so easy. I wish I was an enigma, but I fear I'm just confusing to myself.  


 

In the end, I’m bruised, but not broken.

Everything feels like a tragedy in the dark. It's best to wait until the sun rises, and see things in a different light.  



	27. Cage

Everything’s got something holding them back, wouldn’t you agree?

Their own personal cage. No one’s really free, I mean, truly. Because what we do is always tied to other people, to money, to rules and regulations.

 

You’re free to voice your thoughts, if you live with the consequences - but often times we choose not to, because we’re caged by compassion, by kindness, by courtesy. Not all cages are bad.

 

You’re free to travel, as long as you can afford it - and that’s just it, isn’t it? You can’t just up and leave at any time.

 

You’re free to change your appearance, as long as you live with the repercussions, good and bad.

 

You’re free to dream, but don’t let them make you sad if they feel unachievable.

 

My friends and I, we’re dreamers. And we’re all free by law, but caged by our own baggage.

Money. Education. Family. Responsibility. Emotions.

 

My cage is my body.

 

I’m ill. I’ve got hereditary diseases, allergies, depression, insomnia. I’m often in pain, I’m always exhausted.

 

My mind wants to soar, but I’m a hummingbird trapped under a glass.

If it shatters, it takes me down with it. And I’m too weak to lift it up.

 

I’m learning to slow down, to steady my grip. But it’s hard to be patient when all you want is to fly, and you can see what’s got you tied down, but there’s no way to remove it.

 

I know this is something that I cannot overcome. It’s there, and it will be til the day I die.

The only thing I can do is keep trying, keep banging on the glass, until I grow strong enough to lift it up, or it breaks and it buries me in ruins.


	28. Power

When I read the word “power”, the response in my mind was “control.”

That’s my first association - power in control. I don’t think money is power, or influence. Sure, these are aspects, but control - control over yourself, your emotions, your reactions? No one can hurt you, in this day and age.

Words have power. Actions, too. Reactions even moreso.

And there’s power in knowing. In knowing yourself, and knowing others. In knowing how to respond to certain situations, in knowing what you  _ want _ your responses to be. Power in confidence.

Yes, I’m looking for power. But not power over others. I want power over myself.

 

As I’m writing this, another thought came into my head:

Treat yourself as you would your best friend.

 

I don’t want power over my friends. I want to be kind, compassionate, helpful.

Maybe I shouldn’t want power over me.

Maybe what I want is understanding.

 

...maybe that’s what true power is.


	29. Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what the point of this is, sorry xD

Follow me.

I’m going on a trip, care to join me?

I’m heading down a road of change.

 

We can take my car. Just get in, and start driving. I don’t care where it takes us.

 

I’m leaving behind the mistakes I’ve made. I carry their memories, whether I want to or not, but I’m letting go of the blame.

You can leave yours, too.

 

I’m looking for opportunities. I’ve spent too long cooped up behind the same four walls, holding on to a life that was making me miserable.

You know, I always said I want change, but I was afraid of it, really. I think everyone kind of is.

 

I’ve made a few changes lately - and now it seems I’ve found a new addiction there.

It exhilarates just as much as it terrifies.

 

Let’s make a stop real quick, I’ll find us some hope to share.

It’s okay to have doubts, you know? I have them too. But… it’s okay. We’re never alone. You’ve got me, don’t worry.

I want to change with you.

 

What do you say?


	30. Secret

Can I tell you a secret?

It’s the only one I have.

You might think I’m being dramatic or vague, but it’s true. I’ve only got one, and it’s not well-guarded at all. It’s not some grand treasure that I’d protect with my life. So I’ll tell you.

You see, that’s just it. Here’s my secret:

 

I have no secrets.

 

And it’s not because I can’t keep them. It’s just because I… don’t. 

 

I’m open about what I think and what I feel. For instance… I suffer from depression, but therapy is helping. I’ve had skin cancer, and I’m allergic to almost everything under the sun. I’ve fallen in love with a friend. I wasted 8 years of my life pining over a boy who wasn’t worth my time. I’m pansexual; hearts not parts. I write fanfics, I sketch, I paint, I love skiing. I’m liberal. I don’t like when people talk about me behind my back.

 

These are all things that everyone around me knows. I never came out, because there was nowhere to come out from.

 

There’s nothing that you could use against me as leverage, because I wear my heart on my sleeve. It’s out there. You cannot hurt me.

 

The people who would, they realize that it’s not worth the trouble. Of course there’s ways to hurt me; get close, then stab me in the back. But: You can’t get close if I’m too much for you, and that becomes apparent fast. Those who’d hurt me can’t stay. Those who stay won’t hurt me.

 

Sure I have dreams, hopes, aspirations. And I voice them. Everyone knows them.

I get realistic opinions on what I think, because I can ask anyone about anything.

 

I like living life this way. Things are less complicated without secrets.

I’ve kept some of these facts as secrets in the past, and it does have some appeal. It’s sharing something special with only a choice few people.

But I still do that, even without secrets.

Because the people I talk to are all people I care about. Those who stay, I hold them close to my heart.

And that’s no secret, either.


	31. Final

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we end as we began: with rambling.

_ This is the end - hold your breath and count to ten _

 

The thing is, though… we never know. We never know when something is final, because we don’t know what the future holds.

Things that end could continue years later.

There could be another life after death.

How do we decide what’s final? What’s the last straw?

 

I’m not good at drawing lines, ending things, walking away.

I’m way too terrified that I won’t be able to turn back if my choice was wrong.

You could say I’m afraid of consequences.

 

I don’t know when will be the last time I get into my car. The last time I wake up. The last time I tell someone I love them.

I don’t know, and I don’t want to, because I don’t think I can deal with that kind of sadness.

 

This is the final piece of writing I’m doing for this year’s Inktober - but surely not the last piece I’ll ever write. I guess there are things that are final, in a way, but nothing is absolute.

 

Maybe I’m just too caught in my head. I don’t like thinking about things that end. I prefer to think of new beginnings.

So thank you for reading, thank you for commenting.

I’ll see you next time.

 

(Not) The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts.
> 
> frenchibi.tumblr.com  
> ko-fi.com/frenchibi


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